A Siren Song for Dean
by RobinLady-in-Waiting
Summary: Between hunts Dean stops for a cheeseburger and gets more than he bargined for.


It was over, Metallica thumped through the Impala's speakers almost loud enough to explode the live ammo in the trunk. It felt good to be the best in Hunter; good to be Dean Winchester. Another 'salt and burn' was over, John Winchester was in New York on a hunt and Sammy was living his dream at Stanford. The best part of that was, they were on opposite sides of the continental United States – no fighting. Being twenty-five, foot loose and fancy free helped, too.

As the cassette clicked over to side B Dean felt a rumble in his stomach.

"Been a long time since that breakfast pizza at Apple Mart." he muttered, pulling into the parking lot of a bar and grill. "Live music", flashed across the lower half of a neon sign.

"Hey, best of both worlds; food and music." Dean mused, carefully parking Baby under a security light.

Dean smiled at the gleam brought out by hours of polishing the paint and chrome.

"Ha! Sammy'd say I spend almost that much time spit an' polishin' on myself." Dean thought, swaggering on to the tin roof covered porch of the bar and grill. Thunderous music pounded every surface and spilled out onto the porch as Dean opened the wooden door. A surly looking man of about fifty with a cheetah spot face tattoo and one leg sat on a bar stool near the door.

"Got I.D.?" he demanded as soon as Dean pulled the door shut. Easily, Dean fished his wallet out of his hip pocket and flashed a masterpiece fake driver's license: Norvile Rogers from Milwaukee, WI.

"Go on," the bouncer growled, scowling at Dean's cocky grin.

To the right sat a battered jukebox and a few tables beneath mostly working neon signs for domestic beers. Straight ahead lay the bar behind which was the kitchen. No rabbit food here; Dean smelled cooking meat – beef and bacon at least.

To the left, where the bulk of the crowd stood, a band played. A heavy-set guy in a sleeveless shirt and camo shorts kept a steady rhythm on the drums, his shaved head and red beard bobbing along. On electric guitar, a lanky guy with a billed knit cap played effortlessly. His dilated eyes never moved from the neon beer signs across the room. Neither of these drew half the attention commanded by the lead singer; a knockout brunette in a black leather halter top corset, faded, ripped, black jeans and knee high combat boots. A waitress stood near the rear, a cow bell and drumstick in hand. For a moment Dean forgot about his grumbling stomach.

The lead singer locked eyes with Dean, her blood red lips nearly pressed to the mic. Dean watched her sway, fingers stroking electric guitar strings, nails painted black and cut short. Her voice, intimate, compelling, pulled him closer, through the crowd. She flashed Dean a smile before launching into the first chorus. It dragged Dean along for the electric, roller coaster ride. Adrenaline thrummed through him as he listened, hanging by his fingernails from the edge of every word. He felt her passion, her heartbeat, with every chord. He hadn't felt that kind of exhilaration, outside a hunt, since his first kiss.

When her gaze pulled away, taken by the guitar solo, Dean felt himself stagger.

"Hey!" a belligerent blonde complained, her face pinched in annoyance.

"Sorry," Dean muttered, turning to stare at the lead singer once again. She'd switched to a slower tempo song, holding Dean's gaze once more. The drummer and guitarist lent background vocals as she purred into the mic, her long, straight hair framing her pale, angular face. With a fleeing wink, she turned Dean's knees to Jello. Swept away, he weaved through the crowd as she took the battery powered mic and joined the grinding audience. She brushed her hair back, guitar hanging and mic in hand.

Oh how Dean wanted to be that mic, wanted to caress those full, broad lips. Heady arousal mixed with overwhelming need made him follow her every move. He lost count of the songs, stopped understanding the lyrics, panted for air. He wanted to kiss her throat, caress those creamy, bare shoulders and have her black nails raking down his back. Pushing her up against the wall and losing control of himself on her seemed like a good idea.

Suddenly, the music stopped, the guitar amps reverberating with the last note. The musicians took a bow before shutting down their equipment.

"It's last call, ya'll, so get your asses on home." the lead singer belted out.

Dean's ears rang. He felt confused and weak. Slowly, he pulled himself toward the front door. A strong arm caught his, turning Dean around to face the singer.

"Hey, stud, want to keep me company, dinner's on me." she offered.

"Uh huh," Dean managed, nodding along. She took his hand and pulled the Hunter to a booth near the kitchen door. A buzzing PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) sign lit the area. Dean plopped down facing the swinging door leading to the kitchen. The singer, he'd yet to hear her mane, slid in opposite him.

"Bacon cheeseburger and draft beer good for you?" she asked, her throaty voice a bit hoarse.

"Yeah, that's fine." Things began to clear up in Dean's mind. His heart had slowed to normal, as had his adrenaline.

"Yo, Bucky, two of my usuals, thanks." she called over her shoulder.

Steadier now, Dean began thinking. Where was he and what had happened? That kind of enthrallment couldn't be normal.

"What do they call you, stud?" the singers asked a moment later, her dark gaze analyzing Dean. A smile played with the corners of her pouty lips.

"Dean Winchester, you?" he flashed her a mega watt smile full of self-assured charm.

"I'm Zephyr, nice to meet you, Dean Winchester." She responded with a sly smile.

"What brings you to Bucky's Bar and Grill?"

"Just passin' through," Dean shrugged, smiling lazily; telling the truth for a change. He leaned back against the ripped, black leather booth seat.

"I bet you pass through a lot of places." Zephyr teased, showing perfect, white teeth.

"Been here and there I guess." Dean replied.

Before he could angle into his questions the cow bell waitress pushed through the kitchen door carrying their meals.

"Here ya go, I'll get your beers in a sec." with a cheery smile the waitress left, a sashay in her walk Dean couldn't miss. When he looked back at Zephyr she rolled her eyes. Dean grinned broader. He was foot loose and fancy free after all.

"You're predictable, Dean Winchester." Zephyr leaned forward, one dark eyebrow arched as the waitress set down their beer mugs.

"Only when it comes to pretty girls, sweetheart." Dean answered, lifting his mug to his lips. That brought a rolling chuckle from Zephyr.

"You're full of yourself, stud." she shook her dark head, still smiling.

Dean tied in on his bacon cheeseburger, savoring the hand patted, ground beef and thick bacon.

"Mmm, this is awesome." he complimented.

"I'll tell Bucky." Zephyr nibbled on a french fry, still studying Dean. After a sip of beer she began to hum one of the songs she'd sang earlier. Dean finished his bite but stopped to listen to the seductive melody. Eyes drooping, he sighed.

 _"Metallica, again!"_ Sammy's squeaking, teenage voice came back to Dean, pulling him back from the edge of slumber. Jerking, Dean stood up, turning over the flimsy table and shoving the booth seat backward.

"Stop it! Stop singing!" he demanded, pulling his handgun from inside his jacket while simultaneously sticking his finger in his left ear.

Surprised, Zephyr held her hands up, eyes wide at Dean's reaction. Black and red feather earrings showed through her dark locks. It all fit; mesmerizing voice, pulling him away from his work and his meal.

"A Siren! I thought there were three of you chicks." Dean shouted, angry with her and with himself for letting his guard down.

"What's goin' on here?" a sinuous, husk of an old man demanded, shoving through the kitchen door. Beneath his apron he wore a while, pearl snap shirt tucked into faded Levi jeans. All Dean saw was the sawed off shotgun aimed at his torso. Behind the old man stood the cow bell waitress.

"I got this, old man, just go on back to your burgers." Dean waved his handgun between Zephyr and the hired help.

"Hold on, hold on, stud, it's not what you think." Slowly, Zephyr stood up and began to ease to Dean's right.

"There are three of us Sirens, my sisters are being held captive." she spoke slowly, hands still up.

"By who, 'cause according to Odysseus you all drowned a couple thousand years back." Dean cast a threatening glare her way, still aiming for the cook and the cow bell waitress.

"Sea nymphs drowning, yeah, about like a fish drowning." the singer retorted, moving her hands to her slim hips.

Dean quirked one eyebrow. She had a point.

"Who's got your sisters and why?" Dean demanded, deadlocked with the old man.

"I do." The waitress shoved the cook out of her way, heading for Dean.

The Hunter swung his handgun toward the waitress as her baby blue eyes morphed to black. He pulled the trigger, emptying the nine round clip into her chest. Barely slowing, she reached out to attack.

Zephyr opened her mouth, a single note rising from her throat. The demon waitress began to cringe as the sound faded even though Zephyr's mouth remained open. Dean watched the lithe blonde convulse, blood pouring from her nose, mouth, eyes and ears. Only when she stopped thrashing did Zephyr close her mouth.

"What the hell?" Dean shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.

The old man lay unconscious, his shotgun in the middle of the broken booth table, food and beer mugs. Zephyr sat slumped on the booth seat slightly behind Dean.

"She's dead, you can pull your finger our of your ear, stud." the Siren ground out, her voice gravelly.

"Again, what the hell? How did the demon die? Demons don't die." No one was going to believe this, Dean thought. He'd seen some freaky stuff but this beat all – so far.

"It's not dead, exactly, just dispersed so small, far and wide it'll take a century or two to collect itself." at Dean's confused expression Zephyr continued, "With the right frequency I can move objects, rearrange matter, even to the subatomic level, almost like shattering glass."

No way did Dean understand all that. Sammy would, he thought a little sadly.

"Yeah, okay, then why didn't that frequency or whatever shatter everything else too?" None of this made sense; all Dean wanted was a cheeseburger and maybe some pie.

"The technical stuff doesn't matter. I saved us now my sisters are trapped." Zephyr hung her head, face cradled in her hands.

Dean still wasn't convinced she and her sisters didn't pose a threat. Gun ready, he fished out his flask of holy water. One splash would tell the tale.

"What was that for?" Hair and face damp but intact, Zephyr glared at Dean who held her at gunpoint.

"Seeing which side you're battin' for, sister." He holstered his handgun. If she wanted him dead she'd sing him to death.

"What's the backstory? What did the demon have on you?" Dean took a stool at the bar, helping himself to a longneck from the other side.

"My sisters and I were sold from person to person, demon or whatever, used to lure men in for different reasons. This demon fed on their life force for power. It trapped my sisters in an enchanted jar when we refused. The demon was the only one who new how to release them, said if I didn't sing it would destroy my sisters." She shook her head in defeat.

Stay and help or leave, Dean couldn't decide. Dueling voices in his head shouted for dominance. His father's voice said shoot the Siren, take the trapped sisters and leave. Sammy's voice; pain in the ass, little brother, said to help Zephyr.

Cursing himself, Dean asked, Where did the demon keep the jar?"

Zephyr looked up at him, her dark eyes almost obscured by thick bangs.

"In a safe in the office." Quickly, she stood and led Dean toward the kitchen. The cook, coming around, groaned. Dean picked up the shotgun before the old man woke enough to get any ideas.

"Come on, Bucky, wakie, wakie." The Hunter nudged his foot with the toe of his boot. Then Dean followed Zephyr to the back office.

The safe set under an eight foot folding table used as a desk. Grease scent permeated the place. To the right of the desk chair hung a muscle car calendar featuring a baby blue, '71 Ford Gran Torino. Dean appreciated the classic a second before returning to the problem at hand.

"Do you know the combination?"

When Zephyr shook her head Dean cursed.

"Can't you do your frequency thing on it?" He doubted he'd luck out now.

"I can barely talk, much less hit that kind of note again tonight. Without my sisters I'm only one-third as powerful." Zephyr's gaze bore into Dean, framed by her dark hair.

 _"I'd hate to make all three mad at once."_ Dean mused silently.

"Bucky?" Dean tried again.

Zephyr shook her head again.

"Bucky, Marley Joe, the guitarist and Heavy Kevie, my drummer, are, uh, were, her puppets." Zephyr answered, arms crossed over her chest, momentarily distracting Dean. She filled out the corset halter quite well.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch." Dean swore. Turning on his heel, the Hunter headed for the Impala. Maybe something in the trunk would work.

"Hmm, some gunpowder would blow it open." The Hunter muttered to himself, pulling his army jacket tighter against the early morning air.

"Yeah, and blow my sisters to Kingdom Come." Despite the chill, Zephyr had followed Dean to the parking lot.

"I doubt an enchanted jar is that easily broken, sweetheart." the Hunter retorted, leveling his jade green gaze at her.

"Better not be, stud." Zephyr declared, arms again crossed over her chest and one hip jutted out.

After gathering his supplies, Dean ans Zephyr walked back to the bar and grill.

"All this for a lousy burger." Dean groused.

"Aww, poor little baby." Zephyr taunted, keeping pace. Dean gave her a raised brow, purse lipped glare in return.

Twenty minutes later, Dean had drilled into the safe's door and set an improvised charge. Blowing things up had been one of his favorite father-son activities as a kid.

"Here goes nothin'." Dean muttered, setting off the detonator.

Bits of the folding table and paper confetti blew the kitchen door off its hinges and into the dining area where Dean, Zephyr and Bucky had taken shelter behind the bar.

"Just like the Fourth of July." Dean laughed, grinning like an excited little boy. Together, he and Zephyr entered the office. The safe door lay in one corner, the heavy, metal desk chair in another. Dry wall and ceiling tiles covered what paper and other debris didn't. Dean used a fire extinguisher to put out a small fire. Zephyr searched through the charred safe until she found a soot glazed jar about pint size with a thumb size cork stopper.

"It's intact, thank Zeus." Zephyr raised a triumphant fist in the air.

"Don't crow just ye, they ain't free yet." Dean reminded her.

"They will be, I'll find someone who knows how to release them."

Dean felt himself being dragged down and Zephyr's lips against his. Her fingers pressed firmly into his neck as she faintly touched her tongue to his lips, offering more. Obliging, Dean opened for her. She tasted like music and honey as well as ocean salt. When Zephyr's body brushed against his Dean heard a Jimmy Hendrix guitar solo in the background.

Stunned, Dean felt Zephyr pull away, releasing her hold on his neck.

"Thanks, stud, I owe you one." With a seductive smile, Zephyr left Dean standing in the ruined office.

"Dean, you're late, what happened?" John Winchester asked harshly when he answered his son's call at six AM.

"Yeah, Dad, about that, I stopped for a burger and ended up ganking a demon. It's a long story, tell ya when I get to North Carolina?" Dean slid his sunglasses on as he drove toward the rising sun, Zephyr and Bucky's Bar and Grill in the rear view mirror.

The End.


End file.
